Lysandra
Every face wears a mask
The Observatory was quiet in the way only the sky could be quiet — deep, endless, daring you to fill it with your own noise. Lysandra obliged. She stood barefoot on the wooden floorboards, skirts whispering as she moved, one hand raised like a conductor guiding an orchestra only she could hear.
In her palm glowed a little star whale, no bigger than a lantern flame. It shimmered faintly, flickering at the edges like a candle fighting wind, its tail more suggestion than substance. Anyone else might have dismissed it for what it was — a trick of light, a beginner’s parlor act. But Lysandra tilted her head up and followed it as though it swam through galaxies.
“Steady now,” she whispered, pacing slow circles around the Observatory as her illusion drifted ahead of her. Each time it wobbled she coaxed it back, murmuring lullabies under her breath. As it took greater shape, she encouraged it to swim higher, fingers fluttering as though the stars themselves might listen to her touch.
She was so intent on guiding her fragile creation that she didn’t hear the footsteps climbing the stair. The little whale, oblivious to its maker’s concentration, drifted lazily toward the doorway — a wavering scrap of light and tail-flicker diving straight for whoever came through next.
In her palm glowed a little star whale, no bigger than a lantern flame. It shimmered faintly, flickering at the edges like a candle fighting wind, its tail more suggestion than substance. Anyone else might have dismissed it for what it was — a trick of light, a beginner’s parlor act. But Lysandra tilted her head up and followed it as though it swam through galaxies.
“Steady now,” she whispered, pacing slow circles around the Observatory as her illusion drifted ahead of her. Each time it wobbled she coaxed it back, murmuring lullabies under her breath. As it took greater shape, she encouraged it to swim higher, fingers fluttering as though the stars themselves might listen to her touch.
She was so intent on guiding her fragile creation that she didn’t hear the footsteps climbing the stair. The little whale, oblivious to its maker’s concentration, drifted lazily toward the doorway — a wavering scrap of light and tail-flicker diving straight for whoever came through next.
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